


Vampire Hunter! Starring Castiel Krushnic

by FriendofCarlotta



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Accidental Monster Hunting, Actor Castiel (Supernatural), Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - TV show, BAMF!Cas, BAMF!Donatello, Canon-Typical Violence, Dean and Cas Are Oblivious, Enemies to Lovers, First Kiss, Fluff, Garth Ships It, Halloween, Inspired by Fright Night, M/M, Mild Gore, Production Assistant Dean Winchester, Vampires, Writer Castiel (Supernatural), You heard me, general silliness, idiots to lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-28
Updated: 2020-10-28
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:14:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27027931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FriendofCarlotta/pseuds/FriendofCarlotta
Summary: Straight out of college, Dean gets hired to work on his favorite TV show, "Fright Night." It's a dream come true until the network orders an overhaul to boost ratings, giving the show a new name (“Vampire Hunter!”) and a new star: a grumpy bastard named Castiel, who seems determined to make Dean’s life miserable.Dean just wants to hate Castiel's guts in peace, but then an offsite shoot gets them both trapped in a creepy mansion with a very real, very angry vampire. Can they overcome their differences long enough to kill the monster?
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 41
Kudos: 114
Collections: The Destiel Fan Survey Favs Collection





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Halloween, y'all! 
> 
> "Fright Night" is one of my all-time favorite Halloween movies. And because I can't seem to watch a movie anymore without trying to make it Destiel... well, here we are. (Look out for my Some Like It Hot AU in the near future. You may think I'm joking, but I'm really not.)
> 
> Thank you, as always, to my wonderful, patient friend and beta [tiamatv](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiamatv), who makes my words so, so much better.
> 
> Also, thank you to [duckyboos](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Duckyboos/pseuds/Duckyboos), who was super excited about this fic as I was writing it, and I don't think I would've finished it without her encouragement. She also kept me honest on British accents and zombie movies.
> 
> Finally, thank you to the lovely [dothraki_shieldmaiden](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dothraki_shieldmaiden/pseuds/dothraki_shieldmaiden). She was the first person to read the whole story and laugh at it. (In the good way.)
> 
> This is short and sweet - two chapters, with the second one posting on Friday.
> 
> Enjoy!

[The scene: an abandoned house at the edge of town. Outside, darkness reigns and thunder rolls. A girl and boy sit on a dusty couch with torn upholstery, closer than is strictly polite, their mutual attraction obvious in the way they lean toward each other.]

“Nina, are you sure it was a good idea to come here tonight? I’m worried about you. I’ve never seen your skin look so pale.”

“I’m fine, Jeff. Kiss me.”

“OK.”

[Jeff drapes an arm around Nina’s shoulders, their eyes never leaving each other as he pulls her in. Their lips connect, sliding against each other in a fit of frenzied passion. Jeff pulls back.]

“Your hands are super cold, Nina.”

“Mm. You’ll have to warm them up for me, I guess.”

[Nina leans in again, lowering her lips to kiss Jeff’s throat, open-mouthed.]

“Nina!”

[Jeff pulls away again, shocked. Nina chases after him with an almost feral sound before she composes herself.]

“Yes, Jeff?”

“Your teeth. I thought… did you _bite_ me?”

[Nina’s eyes darken with mischief. She inches closer, backing Jeff into the armrest of the couch.]

“Not yet… but I will _now_.”

[Nina’s hands grab hold of Jeff’s arms, sharp nails digging into his skin. Her lovely mouth is suddenly a gaping maw, her long, pointed fangs exposed as she goes in for the kill.

The door to the outside flies open. Revealed in the entryway is the tall, well-built figure of a handsome man with tousled dark hair and a five o’clock shadow dusting a sharp jawline. His trench coat billows in the wind. He’s holding a crucifix and staring down the creature of the night with icy blue eyes.]

Cas slumps minutely, the giant fan at his back blowing his shaggy hair into his eyes. He swipes at it with an irritated hand.

“Line?” he growls.

Dean flings his dog-eared copy of the script at the nearest wall. “ _'I’m here to put an end to your reign of terror, you undead abomination.’_ ” He enunciates every word extra-slowly and clearly, because apparently, it’s a really hard fucking line to remember. “This is the fourth time, Cas, for fuck’s sake! We’ll never get this damn scene finished if you won’t take it seriously.”

He kind of wishes he’d thrown the script at Cas’ head, actually, but it’s not that heavy, and it might smudge Cas’ makeup, which Dean had to do himself because the lady they paid to do makeup quit yesterday. (They paid her mostly in Dean’s homemade cookies. So he’s a little offended on a personal level that she didn’t stick around.)

Cas doesn’t look even slightly apologetic. If anything, he looks like _he’s_ the injured party here. “How can _anyone_ take this seriously, Dean? It’s riddled with the worst kinds of writing clichés, it’s hopelessly derivative, and it’s the exact same fucking scene we did last week, and the week before that.”

Dean rolls his eyes. Cas has a master’s degree in creative writing, so he seems to consider anything less than Emmy-worthy dialogue an insult to his dignity. He also has a whole lot of rejection letters from major publishing houses for the draft of his one and only finished novel. Dean found out about that the one time he and Cas got drunk together.

That was also the time they almost kissed. 

(They don’t talk about that.) 

Dean grits his teeth. “Well, if they’re all the same fucking scene, you’d think you’d know your lines by now.”

Dean’s kind of proud of the furious, squinty-eyed glare that gets him. Ruffling Cas’ feathers is one of the few remaining perks of Dean’s job. 

Growing up, he idolized Donatello Redfield, the elderly Mr. Rogers type who hosted a late-night variety show on one of the local channels. The show was called “Fright Night,” and it would always show these really cheesy, cheap horror movies that Dean inhaled like they were his mom’s apple pie. Before and after the movie, there’d be badly written and awkwardly acted scenes of Donatello hunting vampires in dusty crypts or abandoned mansions, crucifix in one hand, a stake or holy water in the other. 

Dean loved every second of it.

It was what made him think he might want to work on a TV show someday, and more specifically, on “Fright Night.” He figured it was a pipe dream — until he graduated with a communications degree and saw an ad looking for a new production assistant on the show. It seemed like fate.

Soon enough, he found out his hire was just one part of a big overhaul behind the scenes. Ratings were dropping fast, and the network figured they needed to come up with a new, younger look to draw in more viewers. 

So “Fright Night” became “Vampire Hunter!” and Donatello Redfield was replaced by Castiel Krushnic, author of the great, unpublished American novel, and occasional bit player in local stage productions. (Dean knows for a fact that Cas’ last name is actually Collins. But, apparently, that didn’t sound “exotic enough.” The network guys even tried to make Cas do a Russian accent at first, but it was so awful and offensive, the idea got dropped after the first episode.)

Pretty soon, all the other staffers quit one by one, with the exception of Marv, the weirdo shut-in who writes the scripts for the monster-hunting scenes, and Garth, the camera guy. 

So these days, Dean’s the director, the makeup artist, the lighting guy, the sound guy, the special effects guy and the guy who fetches everyone coffee. (That last part isn’t technically in the job description, but he started when he first got hired, and he never really stopped.)

All of which adds up to this: for the past six months, Cas has been the bane of Dean’s existence.

When Cas first got hired, Dean figured it was in his best interest to make nice. And it certainly didn’t hurt that Cas was easy on the eyes. But from the outset, Cas seemed kind of withdrawn; not interested in making friends. 

As a last-ditch effort, Dean decided to invite Cas over to his place one night for drinks. But after the aborted kiss, things turned awkward fast, and they settled back into their respective corners. If anything, Cas dialed up the sarcasm and general mockery of the show's scripts and production values. Sniping at each other became their default setting.

Today, all Cas is supposed to do is say his one line and stake the vamp, after which the jury-rigged, pressurized blood bag under the actress’ shirt is going to spray fake blood right onto Cas’ costume. (The blood is made with a Karo syrup base to give it a thicker texture. Dean’ll have to wash that sticky shit off in his machine at home later, but it’ll be worth it.)

And yet, they've been on set for three hours already because Cas can’t. Remember. His. One. Fucking. Line.

Dean rubs at his own stubbled cheek, harder than probably necessary. “What the hell,” he sighs. Resigned to this being another one of _those_ days, he raises his voice. “Everybody, take fifteen!”

He walks over to the craft table and pours himself his third cup of coffee, hunching his shoulders for the conversation he knows is about to happen. 

Sure enough, with a dramatic huff, the erstwhile Nina stalks up to him, heels clicking. “You know, you guys only paid me fifty bucks to be here! I thought I’d be in and out in half an hour!”

Tension coiling in his muscles, Dean flexes his fingers around his Styrofoam cup, then winces when some of the boiling-hot liquid sloshes onto his hand. In spite of the smarting patch of skin between his thumb and index finger, he hitches on his most charming smile. “Sorry, sweetheart. That’s the biz. For every ten minutes on camera, you spend hours sitting on your ass.”

“Yeah, well, that idiot better get his damn line right next time, or my ass is outta here.”

And with that, she stalks off.

As soon as Dean dips his head to take a sip of the still-scalding brew, someone else sidles up to him. “What the fuck is it now?” Dean demands.

“Woah there, buddy. Having a bad day?” Garth asks.

Dean forces himself to compose his face into something a hell of a lot more pleasant. “Sorry, Garth. Thought you were one of the actors coming over to complain. Again.”

“Nah.” Smiling pleasantly, just like he always does, Garth pours himself his own cup of coffee and leans companionably against the craft table next to Dean. They both watch Cas, who’s pretzeled himself into one of the nearby folding chairs, earbuds in, nose buried in a book. “Maybe if you and Cas were better friends, he’d be more inclined to learn his lines?”

Dean scoffs. Wanting everybody to get along is very much Garth’s thing. “Look. I’ve _tried_ to be friends with Cas, but he couldn’t have made it clearer that everything about this show is beneath him, including me.”

Okay, so, Cas hasn’t actually _said_ he doesn’t like Dean, not in so many words. But on that night they don’t talk about, Dean was the one who moved in for the kiss, and Cas pulled away. And it’s not that Cas isn’t interested in guys, because just before he shot Dean down, they were having an argument about whether Harrison Ford was hotter as Han or as Indy. (Eventually, they agreed that the answer was “both.”) For some reason, it seemed like a kiss might be the right move that night. Maybe it was the way they’d been laughing their heads off a minute earlier. Or the way Cas suddenly got all quiet and started staring at Dean like a starving man who’s spotted a brunch buffet. 

But Cas obviously didn’t want Dean to kiss him.

So, you know, message received.

Garth looks at Dean shrewdly over the rim of his cup. “Have you really, though? Tried?”

Dean bristles. “D’you see him over there? He’s a real approachable guy.”

“Being all prickly could be his defense mechanism,” Garth says, shrugging. With an exaggerated wink, he adds, “I know another guy like that.” 

Dean rolls his eyes. “Did you come over just to psychoanalyze me?”

Garth draws himself up to his full height, which makes him look a lot more impressive than it should, given how scrawny he is. “No, actually,” he says, with supreme dignity. “I came over because I have an idea for how we can save the show.”

*** 

They do eventually get the damn scene in the can, after two more takes and a promise from Dean to get the guest actors an extra thirty bucks each. Which isn’t in his budget, so he’ll have to take it out of the budget for next week’s show. Assuming they still _have_ a show next week.

They’re sitting in Dean’s office, though ‘office’ is actually a generous word for it. It’s the size of a broom closet, and because their tiny space in the back corner of a warehouse doesn’t have an _actual_ broom closet, there’s even some cleaning supplies in the corner. You know, just to make things _extra_ professional.

Dean’s sitting in the rickety wooden chair behind his desk, being careful not to lean back too far so as to avoid contact with the mysterious wet spot on his wall that never seems to go away. 

Across his desk, Garth and Cas are facing him: Garth wearing his usual beatific smile and Cas scowling like he’s got better places to be. (To be fair, almost everywhere is a better place to be than Dean’s sorry excuse for an office.)

“So, Garth.” Dean leans forward, because if anything hatches from that wet spot, he should at least be out of claw-swiping distance. “Whatcha got?”

“Well.” Garth steeples his hands over his nonexistent belly. “Y’all know about the Brewster House, right?”

It’s very much a rhetorical question. Everybody who grew up in the area knows about the Brewster House — the giant, creepy mansion that kids have been sneaking into for decades and that has at least five different ghost stories attached to it.

Dean nods and motions for Garth to continue. Cas blows out a heavy, long-suffering breath through his nose, which Dean chooses to ignore.

Garth leans forward, eyes darting between them. In a conspiratorial whisper, he says, “Somebody moved into it a couple of weeks ago.”

“Holy shit, really? That place has been empty forever.” Dean leans into his chair, almost forgetting about the stain, but pulling back just in time.

Even Cas looks interested for once. “How do you know?”

“Donatello lives right next door. He told me.”

Right. Dean should probably know about that. Donatello got his pink slip just a few weeks after Dean started on the show, but for those few weeks, he’d seemed like a decent guy, if a bit grouchy. Dean really should have made more of an effort to stop by and see how the guy was doing.

“Anyway, not the point,” Garth continues. “The new owner is this real handsome guy called Arthur Ketch. Kinda keeps to himself, but I met him a couple times after I stopped by Donatello’s house. He’s very polite.” Garth lowers his voice again. “ _British_.”

“Not to be a stick-in-the-mud,” Cas says, completely ignoring Dean’s immediate snort, “but what does that have to do with the show?”

“Well, I’m getting to that.” Garth pauses, apparently for dramatic effect. “Donatello thinks this Ketch guy is a vampire.”

The silence in the room is so absolute, Dean thinks he can hear the sound of a lonely cricket five miles away. 

Wow. He _really_ should’ve been checking on Donatello, apparently.

“What, uh,” Cas says, his tongue flicking out to wet his lips. Dean does _not_ wish it was his tongue instead. “What makes him think so?”

Which, okay, is not the reaction Dean expected from Cas. Something like an immediate and dramatic exit from the room, trench coat flapping and annoyingly chiseled jaw clenching, would have been more like it. 

Garth shrugs. “Well, Donatello’s been handing out these fliers around the neighborhood with a picture of a woman walking into the house. I guess she was reported missing a couple days after he saw her going in?”

“That’s a little thin,” Cas says, frowning, and again, what the hell? 

“Cas, you don’t believe this shit, do you? I mean, _vampires_? With the… the fangs?” Dean waves a hand at his mouth, then makes a vague flapping motion with his arms. “And the bats?”

Cas suddenly looks nervous. His fingers fidget at the collar of his shirt, and he pulls something out of it. It’s a silver necklace of some kind. There seems to be a pendant, but Dean can’t see it well because Cas has his fingers wrapped around it. “Ah… no. No, of course not.” Cas shakes his head and adopts a more neutral expression. “Obviously.”

Garth squints back and forth between them impatiently. “Anyway, what I was coming to was this: nobody took Donatello too seriously at first. They figured he was just upset about getting kicked off the show. But he’s been making a lot of noise. He even started a blog the other day. And this guy Ketch, he’s about to make some big investments, buying up a bunch of properties. Some of those old factories at the west end of town,” Garth gestures vaguely to the left, “and the old mall up Route 70. Gonna redevelop them, I guess. He doesn’t want any of Donatello’s rumor-mongering interfering with that.”

“I still fail to see how this involves the show,” Cas says, and is it just Dean, or does his voice sound a little shaky?

“I hate to agree with Cas on anything,” Dean says, barely sparing a glance at the glare that’s being sent his way, “but he makes a decent point. How does all that help _us_?”

Garth leans forward, forearms on his thighs, grinning like he’s about to present Dean and Cas with some kind of major treat. “We do a special edition of the show, at Ketch’s house. We make him touch a crucifix, drink holy water, wear a garlic necklace, the whole nine yards. To prove,” Garth adds, with a triumphant gleam in his eye, “that he’s _not_ a vampire.” 

“A special edition,” Dean muses. It doesn’t sound like a terrible idea, blurring the boundaries between reality and fiction like that. It’s different. Creative. Except…

Cas clears his throat. “It doesn’t make for very good television, does it? Proving that someone’s _not_ a vampire?”

Dean curses him silently for making the same excellent point Dean was about to make. Creepy, grouchy, mindreading dude.

Garth dispels that objection with a swipe of his hand. “Obviously, we’d hire another actor to participate in the test, and he’d turn out to be an actual vampire.”

“Obviously,” Dean says drily. “Just one little problem with that: I had to blow most of next week’s actor budget on _this_ week’s actors to get them to stick around long enough for _someone_ to nail his one freaking line.”

Predictably, Cas flares up. “If the scripts weren’t so stupid—” 

“Fellas,” Garth says cheerfully, making shushing motions with both hands. “Fellas. No need to fight. We’ll just work with in-house talent.”

“In-house—” Dean says, confused, until Cas’ smirk drives home the point. “Oh, hell no. I’m _not_ getting on camera. Least of all with fake fangs and a bunch of freaking blood bags. Nope. No way. Not gonna happen.”

***

Dean looks down at the minor assortment of fake vampire teeth in various sizes, all laid out on the craft-slash-makeup-slash-prop table so he can choose the set that fits him best.

At least, that’s what he’s supposed to be doing, but he’s mostly busy regretting his life choices when Garth strolls up. “So I called Mick Davies. I told you about him, right? Ketch’s live-in assistant?”

Dean waves for Garth to continue, still fixing the display of fangs with a baleful stare. 

“Well, he says Ketch just _loves_ the idea. Thinks it’s the perfect, fun little event to dispel all those rumors and get public buy-in for his plans for the town.”

“Great,” Dean says, tonelessly. Should he go for the pair with a bit of blood already painted on? He’d say it’s too cheesy, but “too cheesy” has never really been a deterrent on this show.

Garth keeps talking like Dean’s giving him his full attention. “He does say that Ketch is _very_ religious, so he doesn’t want any crucifixes involved. And he’s got a sensitive stomach, so no garlic. The holy water test he’s okay with, as long as we don’t use real holy water. Again, the religious thing.”

“Sure, whatever. Give him tap water. Gotcha,” Dean says, most of his attention still on the strange, troubling turn his life has taken. Maybe it’s not too late to apply for that job at the local news station?

“Good.” Garth has already started to walk away when something seems to occur to him and he doubles back. “Oh, and one more thing. Mick said Ketch works all day, so he can only shoot after dark.”

Dean flashes Garth an unseeing thumbs-up, still staring down his dental doom.

*** 

The show airs on Thursdays, so they make the appointment for the shoot at Mr. Ketch’s house for Sunday night. That way, the staff (read: Dean) will have plenty of time to edit the footage into something that’s actually fit to broadcast.

The vampire test will be split into two parts: first, the initial introduction of Ketch, and of Dean, whose character will be “local businessman and possible vampire Dean Smith.” As always, that first segment will be followed by the vampire movie of the week (“I Bought a Vampire Motorcycle,” a ‘90s gem). The second segment, after the movie, will be the actual test. Ketch is going to down his tap water, be totally fine, and then it’ll be Dean’s turn. He’ll flash his fangs, grapple with Cas a bit (which he is _not_ looking forward to, no matter what Garth has been insinuating), and then pretend to let himself be staked.

Dean’s got his literal bloody fangs in the jacket pocket of his costume (aka, the suit he stole from his roommate Benny) and a generously filled blood bag under his shirt. The suit’s already got weird, rusty-looking stains on it, so Dean figures it’s no great loss. And it’s not like Benny gets a lot of use out of his suit anyway, working the night shift at the hospital.

As if the fangs and the monkey suit and the idea of being on camera weren’t all sufficiently humiliating, Dean got stuck giving Cas a ride to Ketch’s house. Apparently, Cas’ old Continental finally crapped out on him, and Garth can’t take him because he’s schlepping all the camera equipment. (They’re really just taking the one handheld camera though, and Garth drives a minivan, so Dean is extremely suspicious of that particular excuse.)

Anyway, point being, Dean is in his Baby, which is good, and she’s idling outside Cas’ apartment building, which is bad.

Dean’s unhelpful brain chooses that moment to remind him that he’s always been embarrassingly attracted to Cas in his costume. It’s a little on-the-nose Constantine, what with the dark suit, messy tie and trench coat, but it just works, paired with the stubble, the sex hair, the hypnotic eyes, the… Dean needs to stop right the fuck now, because there Cas is, all dressed up in his “Vampire Hunter!” outfit, striding towards Dean’s car with purpose and squared shoulders. He’s also carrying the worn little duffle that contains his vampire-hunting paraphernalia (stake, holy water, etc.). Cas keeps it at his place, because it’s not like they have a prop department.

Annoyingly graceful as always, Cas slides into the front seat, acknowledging Dean’s presence with the barest dip of his chin.

Dean was really, really going to avoid messing with Cas today, but it’s just too damn tempting.

“So… you got all those new lines Marv wrote last night, right?”

Abandoning his attempt to get the Impala’s ancient seatbelt to behave, Cas spins around to face Dean, looking appalled. “New lines?”

“Sure,” says Dean, nodding earnestly. “He wrote you a whole speech about how the vampire is really a tragic figure who craves nothing more than… what was it?” Dean taps his chin in mock thoughtfulness. “Oh, right. ‘The poignant, ephemeral connection of the flesh.’”

Cas’ face goes very still, nothing but his lips moving as he mouths the words tonelessly.

Dean tries to keep a straight face, he really does, but it’s a lost cause. He cackles. “Dude, I’m messing with you. It’s still just your intro speech, and then the test and the fight with me, and then your little closer.” Imitating Cas’ gravelly growl, Dean recites, “‘These undead abominations will never be allowed to roam free. Not while I’m around. I’m Castiel Krushnic, vampire hunter.’”

Cas narrows his eyes, completely ignoring Dean’s excellent acting skills. “It wasn’t funny."

“C’mon.” Dean nudges a gentle elbow into Cas’ side. “It was a _little_ funny.”

Cas mutters something unintelligible and turns away as Dean starts the car, staring out the passenger-side window like the view of his apartment building’s parking lot is the most thrilling thing he’s ever seen. 

“You gotta admit you had it coming after the last show,” Dean says as he pulls onto the road. He should just let Cas stew, but he never seems to be able to stop himself from poking at him, trying to find some kind of even footing for their relationship.

Cas half-shrugs. For a minute or two, they’re both silent, and then Dean nearly crashes the car when Cas says, “I do regret that. Not learning the line. I was being unprofessional.”

Dean surprises himself when he asks, so quietly he’s almost sure Cas won’t hear over the rumble of his Baby’s engine, “Why were you?”

Cas rolls his shoulders, shifting a little in his seat. “I… was having a bad time that day.” Something about the lines of his face, as seen from the corner of Dean’s vision, has softened a little, and Dean feels like maybe he should be asking a follow-up question. But before he can, Cas' expression shutters again and he mumbles, “I’d rather not talk about it." 

Dean nods, and silence falls again. The next time he finishes making a turn, Dean says, “I’m not a ‘feelings talk’ guy anyway.”

Cas snorts. “I’ll say. You’re as subtle as a bull in a china shop.”

Dean fixes him with a glare that probably lasts a lot longer than it should, considering he’s currently piloting a giant hunk of metal. “You know what’s not subtle? That metaphor.”

Cas crosses his arms, smirking obnoxiously. “It’s not a metaphor. It’s a simile.”

Dean thinks he should really be commended for not punching the guy then and there, road safety be damned.

“Oh, it’s on,” he says instead, pointing a threatening finger in Cas’ general direction. “Who’re _you_ to talk to me about subtlety, Mr. Everything-Is-A-Sarcastic-Punchline?”

“Sarcasm is a time-honored coping mechanism,” Cas says, with supreme dignity, though Dean could swear his lips are starting to twitch, “used by many great minds.”

“Right,” Dean shoots back, trying and failing to keep his own lips from curving up. “Can’t spell sar _cas_ tic without Cas, right?”

For a beat, Cas stares at him, slack-jawed. Then, his mouth shuts with an audible click of his teeth. One corner of his mouth ticks in an unmistakably upward direction, and his fingers start to twitch. 

(It’s a good thing they’re stopped at a red light, because Dean really needs to watch whatever the hell is happening here.) 

Both of Cas’ shoulders are trembling now, and then… something escapes from between Cas’ lips, which are almost painfully thin with the effort of trying to keep a straight face.

Something that can only be called a giggle.

And that’s it. That’s all Dean can take. 

An extremely undignified snort bursts out of him, and before he knows it, he’s laughing so hard, he barely even notices the cacophony of honks starting up behind him. The light probably changed some time ago. 

They don’t say anything else for the rest of the drive, but twice over, they catch each other’s eye and start howling all over again.

By the time they pull up in front of the Brewster House, Dean’s not entirely sure how they even got there, let alone so quickly. All he knows is, maybe doing that fight scene with Cas later isn’t going to be such a chore after all.

*** 

For as long as Dean can remember, the Brewster House had your classic haunted mansion look: overgrown yard, dangling shutters, peeling paint, missing roof tiles.

Even in the gathering darkness of late evening, Dean can tell that the house facing him now is a _very_ different customer.

Every blade of grass has been cut to exactly the same length as all its neighbors. The walls and trim are painted in soothing pastels, the roof tiles of the whimsical corner turret repaired, shutters firmly attached and gleaming with wholesomeness. There’s even a porch swing, creaking gently in the light breeze.

The sole discordant note is Garth’s banged-up, rusted minivan, already pulled into the top of the driveway.

At the top of the steps, on the homey porch, stands a tall, well-groomed man with dark hair and blue eyes, hands clasped solemnly, waiting for them. His suit has the impeccable fit of something tailor-made, and the overall impression is of a more put-together (read: less attractive) version of Cas.

As Dean makes his way to the porch, his eyes fall on the significantly smaller and more dingy Victorian next door. He could swear he sees one of the curtains twitch, and a flash of wavy white hair. But it’s there and gone before he can be sure.

“Welcome,” Not-Cas says when Dean and Cas have made it up the porch steps. He’s all polite smiles and benign nods. “You must be Castiel and Dean?”

Huh. Based on the many times he’s watched "Cockneys vs. Zombies," Dean’s pretty sure that’s a Cockney accent. You don’t hear a lot of those in the Midwest.

They both return his nod, and the guy favors them each with a quick, business-like handshake. “Mick Davies. Mr. Ketch’s live-in assistant.”

Mick’s hand is cool in Dean’s palm, and Dean bites his tongue to keep from commenting on the weirdness of the “live-in” part. He was pretty sure the idea of “live-in” employees died with the 19th century. Then again, rich people are weird.

“This way, please.” Mick extends one arm in the direction of the entrance, motioning for Cas and Dean to precede him into the dark, cool interior of the mansion. 

It’s… something else. There’s a giant chandelier suspended from the ceiling, casting a warm glow onto rich Persian rugs and antique side tables. Garth, his camera in his lap, is sunk quicksand-deep into an ostentatiously patterned armchair. For some unfathomable reason, he’s wearing a white ball cap that proclaims “Free Hugs” in a rainbow riot of neon colors.

“Hey, fellas,” he says, and waves, just as cheerful and unaffected as though they’re having another day at the warehouse.

Dean acknowledges him with a grin before his eyes are drawn to the soaring staircase right in the center of the foyer. The bottom of each banister is topped by a gleaming black-marble statue of a woman draped in a toga and carrying a torch. At the top of the staircase, casting a kaleidoscopic glow on the proceedings, is a giant stained-glass window. It’s circular, with an abstract pattern of colors and flowers, reminiscent of the sort of thing more commonly found in cathedrals.

Dean feels Cas stop dead next to him in the doorframe, obviously just as frozen by the sheer… muchness of the place. 

A shadow cuts across the stained-glass window, and a man descends the stairs.

He’s tall, broad-shouldered, with a well-cut jaw and a generous head of dark hair. (What is it with every single person in this house pushing all of Dean’s “yes, please” buttons? How is he supposed to work under these conditions?) Like Mick’s, his grey suit is exquisitely tailored, its color offset nicely by a salmon-colored tie and matching pocket square. A roguish smile lights his sculpted features — like he’s thinking of an excellent joke known only to him, and Dean suddenly finds that he really, really wants to be in on that joke.

He shakes his head, trying to clear it. _Cool it, Winchester. You’re here to work._

The man has reached the bottom of the stairs now, and Dean flinches a little when the deep baritone of Mick’s voice sounds from next to his ear. He’d forgotten the guy was still there. “Dean, Castiel, Garth — may I present my employer, Mr. Arthur Ketch." 

Garth gets up, and he and Dean both step forward to shake hands. “A pleasure,” Ketch says, warmly. He seems to be British as well, and even Dean knows enough to recognize his accent as a much more sophisticated one than Mick’s.

Then Ketch turns to Cas, who is still hovering by the door.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you as well, Castiel.” Ketch holds out his hand, and Cas looks down at it like he’s being offered a basket of venomous snakes. His throat bobs with a heavy swallow, and for a moment or two, Dean’s sure Cas is going to refuse to shake hands. But then he reaches out, and Ketch folds both his palms around Cas’ hand.

Ketch locks eyes with Cas, and they stand there, unmoving. From where Dean is standing, he can’t see Ketch’s face, but he can see Cas’ eyes. They’re glazing over, sliding slowly out of focus.

Garth’s cheerful voice sounds from his left. “That’s an awfully interesting painting there, Mr. Ketch.”

Cas blinks and withdraws his hand.

Shaking off his unease, Dean turns to see the painting Garth is pointing at, recessed in a small alcove to the left of the staircase. It’s a painting of Ketch, or a man who looks an awful lot like him. Except he’s wearing the kind of ruffled collar that went out of fashion with the Renaissance. 

“Ah yes,” Ketch says smoothly. “An ancestor of mine. Pronounced family resemblance.”

Garth ambles over to study the plaque at the bottom of the frame. “Sir Arthur Ketch,” he reads.

“A family name,” Ketch agrees.

Dean catches sight of Cas’ expression out of the corner of his eye. There’s something there… fear?

Dean doesn’t have time to dwell on that discovery, though. They’re on a tight schedule, so everyone gets busy setting the scene for the “vampire test.” Ketch and Dean will each be tied to a chair in the middle of the mansion’s living room, the idea being that Cas captured them before the broadcast began.

Would it have been more exciting to show the capture on-screen? Sure. But the acted segments on either side of the movie of the week are no more than eight minutes long, and Dean somehow doubts Ketch would have agreed to participate in a scuffle that might rumple his immaculately pressed suit. 

As Garth winds a length of rope around Dean’s torso with surprisingly practiced-looking motions — “Boy scout training,” Garth chirps, in response to Dean’s questioning eyebrow — Dean focuses on Cas, who is looking unusually pale, rummaging through his bag of supplies. He’s crouched next to the bag with his back to Ketch and Mick, who are conferring in hushed voices next to one of the windows. Eventually, Cas pulls out a small, flat box and flips the lid. 

As Dean watches, an expression of shock and dismay ripples across Cas’ features. It’s so unlike Cas’ usual grouchy, distant expression that Dean feels a shiver run down his spine. Cas looks back and forth between Ketch and Mick, then down at the small object in his hand. Dean can see Cas’ chest rising and falling with his quickened breaths.

His movements jerky, Cas gets up and hurries over to Dean’s chair. He bends over to whisper in Dean’s ear, the small puff of warm air causing a second, but much more pleasant, shiver. “We need to talk, Dean. In private.” 

Dean tries to jerk back to a safer distance, only to be foiled by the ample amount of cotton rope looping around most of his upper body. He contorts his neck awkwardly to look up at Cas, who is still leaning way too damn close. “Now, Cas? You really think _this_ is the time for a chat?” 

“Please, Dean?” There’s a note of urgency, pleading even, in Cas’ voice that Dean has never heard there before. His eyes are wide open, all ocean-blue earnestness.

Dean sighs. “Garth? Undo my knots, will ya?”

***

As soon as Dean has disentangled himself, Cas takes hold of his arm and drags him outside, onto the porch. The only illumination out there is the indistinct, dull glow of streetlights, and the light emanating from the window, where the silhouettes of Mick and Ketch are still in conference.

Cas’ eyes fall on the shadowy outlines of the two men where they darken the pristine wood of the porch. He tenses and pulls Dean down the steps, into the shadow of a tree that adjoins the driveway.

“Dean, what I’m about to tell you is going to sound very strange.” Cas licks his lips nervously and looks back at the house. Dean tries very hard to focus on what Cas is saying, as opposed to how nice it would feel to cup his face and kiss away the frown line between his eyebrows.

Despite his best efforts, Dean almost misses what Cas tells him next. “I keep a small pocket mirror in my prop bag. I… I pulled it out to make sure my makeup wasn’t smudged, and…” Cas swallows hard. “I caught sight of Ketch in the mirror. Or rather, I didn’t.”

Dean blinks. “You… what?”

Cas worries at his bottom lip with his teeth. “He didn’t cast a reflection in my mirror.”

Dean opens and closes his mouth three times. By the third time, he still has no idea what to say, so he chuckles weakly. “Cas, I gotta admit, I didn’t think you had it in you to pull pranks, but this is a hell of a time to start. We’re trying to get our scenes shot and we’ve only got access to Ketch for a couple of hours and—”

“When I was twelve,” Cas says, his voice a little shaky, “I saw something. I was walking home by myself after dark, even though my parents had told me not to.” He exhales something that sounds vaguely like a laugh, but Dean can’t be sure. “I was so stupid. Anyway, I got scared and I figured I’d take a shortcut to get home faster. But there was…”

Cas breaks off and looks at his shoes. Dean’s fingers itch to reach out and put a steadying hand on his shoulder, but he’s not sure it would be welcome, so he stays where he is. 

“There was someone in an alley. A man and… and a woman. There was so much blood, and I thought… I thought I saw the man… feeding on her.” Cas looks off down the street, blinking hard. “I told my parents, but they didn’t believe me, obviously. So I started reading everything I could about vampires. What they’re like. How to fight them. When my parents figured out what I was doing, they were worried I was developing ‘dangerous delusions.’” For once, Dean doesn’t feel like smirking at Cas’ pretentious air-quote habit. “They sent me to therapy. Years and years of therapy. I thought I was over it. That’s why I took the job on this damn show. To _prove_ to myself that I was over it.” Cas’ chuckle is utterly mirthless. “Look how _that_ worked out.”

Dean stands frozen, watching each crack in Cas’ composure as it develops and widens. Jaw working and hands bunching into fists, Cas croaks, “If there’s one thing I learned from all those damn books, it’s that vampires don’t cast a reflection in mirrors.” He looks at Dean, blue eyes wide and pleading. “Dean, I really think we need to get out of here.”

Unease prickles down Dean’s spine. He remembers plenty of movies where vampires also had the power to put their intended victims into a trance. The way Cas’ eyes became all glazed and distant when Ketch looked at him…

He shoves that thought away. It’s too crazy.

“Cas, you can’t seriously be saying what I think you’re saying,” he says, careful to keep his tone gentle. 

Cas shakes his head wearily. “You think I’m crazy.” He half-turns away, looking back at the house and the shadowy figures moving around inside it. “God, I can’t even blame you.”

“No, hey.” Dean does grab hold of Cas’ shoulder then, turning him so they’re facing each other fully. One hand on each shoulder, Dean dips his head to catch Cas’ eye. “Maybe I don’t believe that Ketch is a freaking vampire, but I do believe that you’re scared. God knows you’re a terrible actor, so I don’t think you could fake it that well.” 

Impossibly, that coaxes a small smile from Cas. Encouraged, Dean goes on. “So here’s what we’ll do. I’ve still got some real holy water in my trunk, because back in the day, Donatello always said we needed to use the real stuff. For ‘verisimilitude’ or some shit like that.” He dismisses that detail with an impatient wave. “Anyway. Point being, we get Ketch nice and tied up, and we feed him the real holy water. And then, when he doesn’t start smoking, or grow fangs, will that make you feel better?”

For a moment, Cas stands there, meeting Dean’s eyes. There’s a whole world of thoughts swirling behind the blue of Cas' irises, and Dean suddenly wishes he had the time to parse them all. “I think so,” Cas whispers.

They’re standing way too close to each other. Somehow, without Dean’s permission, one of his hands has wandered up from Cas’ shoulder to cup the side of his neck. 

“Can I…” Dean starts, swallows. “Can I kiss you this time?”

Cas nods. “I didn’t mean to pull away that night. I just… I was surprised and—” Cas breaks off. 

With a small, involuntary exhale, Dean leans forward. 

“Hey, fellas!” Garth calls from the porch. “You coming back here to shoot this thing or what?”

Cas jerks back, and Dean almost falls over his own feet in his haste to put more space between them.

“I’ll just…” Dean points at the trunk of the Impala. “You go ahead.”

Cas looks after him, a little forlorn. “Right,” he says.

Before Dean has taken two steps in the direction of his car, Cas’ voice calls him back.

“What if he _does_ grow fangs?”

Dean digs his fake vampire teeth out of his jacket pocket and pops them in his mouth, doing his best impression of an evil sneer. "He shows me his, I'll show him mine."

Cas snorts, shaking his head in amused disbelief as he starts walking back to the house. Dean opens the trunk and pulls out a flask. Without knowing exactly why, he picks up another and puts it in the inside pocket of his suit jacket.

*** 

It takes about twenty minutes to get the whole scene set up again, but eventually, Dean and Ketch are each tied to their chairs, with Mick hovering in the shadows just out of view.

They put the first segment in the can, Cas welcoming the viewers and introducing Ketch and Dean as local businessmen and likely vampires. Ketch then does his whole spiel about how he’s not a vampire at all and just wants to use his “considerable resources” to turn the fortunes of the town around.

They get it on the second take. Then, Garth unties Ketch and Dean so they can work the tension out of their muscles, and so Dean can insert his fangs for his upcoming vampire “transformation.”

When everyone’s all tied up again, Garth hoists his camera onto his shoulder while Cas takes a deep breath, getting into the spirit of the scene. He looks outwardly calm now; the slight tightness around his eyes is noticeable only because Dean is looking for it. He privately wonders how much of Cas’ behavior on set these past few months has been due to being in a setting that makes him uncomfortable and reminds him of memories he’d rather put behind him.

He doesn’t get too deep into that line of thought, though, before Garth shouts, “Action!”

“Welcome back, horror fans,” Cas tells the camera, eyebrows furrowed grimly. “Did you know there are some people who don’t believe in vampires?” His voice is equal parts incredulity and disapproval. “Well, we’re about to prove them wrong. You’ve already met these two local businessmen—” he points an admonishing finger at Dean and Ketch in turn “—Dean Smith and Arthur Ketch, who are suspected of being the undead. Blood suckers. Monsters preying on the young and beautiful of our town. Tonight, we’ll discover the truth of the matter… together.”

From the pocket of his trench coat, Cas produces the small flask Dean slipped him earlier. “I have here,” Cas near-whispers, “genuine holy water. I’m going to make these two drink it. If they’re human, it won’t harm them. But if they’re not…”

Cas trails off, his grim, pinched look suggesting awful consequences, or possibly chronic constipation. Still squinting meaningfully at the camera, he uncorks the flask and steps closer to Ketch. Out of the corner of his eyes, Dean can tell Cas’ hands are shaking. He suddenly, irrationally wishes he could take this task off Cas’ shoulders, but he’s not about to sabotage what could be their last shot at saving the show because of some stupid, irrational curl of apprehension in his gut.

Ketch says his line — “Do what you want with me; I’m human and I can prove it!” — and Cas steps closer. Careful to keep facing the camera, Cas guides the flask to Ketch’s lips.

Ketch tips his head back.

Several things happen at once.

An unearthly, inhuman cry rips from Ketch’s throat, shaking the windows and vibrating Dean’s eardrums. His lips start to smoke and blister, as though the water touching them is scalding hot. Their flesh peels back to reveal a terrifying glimpse of long, pointed canines.

There’s a yell and a thud. Then, the room is plunged into complete darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DUN-DUN-DUN-DUNNNN.
> 
> Fun fact: David Haydn-Jones, the actor who plays Ketch on SPN, actually appears in "I Bought a Vampire Motorcycle".


	2. Chapter 2

Dean blinks, trying desperately to speed his eyes’ adjustment to the gloom.

A body moves past him, knocking into his shoulder and toppling his chair. By some stroke of luck, he lands on his side instead of face first. He hears another thud, further away. It’s impossible to tell if it’s Garth or Cas.

Dean tries to call out, but the words come out garbled past the stupid, bulky fangs. Working his jaw furiously, he finally manages to spit them out on the third try.

“Garth?” he tries. “Cas? What the hell happened?”

The bulbs of the chandelier flare on, and Dean squeezes his eyes shut against the intrusion. Bracing himself, he opens them a few seconds later, ready as he’ll ever be to figure out what the hell kind of situation he finds himself in.

Cas is standing by the front door, one hand still on the light switch, his expression grim. Garth is sitting on the floor next to the shattered remains of Ketch’s former chair, looking just as stunned as Dean feels. There’s no trace of either Ketch or Mick.

“What… the fuck?” is what comes out of Dean’s mouth.

For someone whose brain is still struggling to pick up the pieces, it seems like a pretty accurate summation of their current situation. 

“I think Mick cut the lights,” Cas says, then adds, drily, “Also, I think it’s safe to say I’m not crazy.”

Before Cas can spend any more time gloating about his victory — which Dean isn’t totally ready to concede yet, because doing so would be a pretty serious blow to his entire worldview — a blur separates from the shadows of the next room and rushes at Cas, knocking him to the floor.

As Dean scrambles to his feet, the blur resolves into Mick, who is looming over Cas, face drawn tight with rage, hands at Cas’ throat.

Garth crawls over to Dean, undoing the knots that still bind him to his chair. Once the ropes are loose enough for Dean to pull free, Garth heads for the writhing mass of limbs across the room and aims a strategic kick at Mick’s face.

The kick connects. Mick’s head whips to the side.

With a sickening crack, it snaps back into place, and Mick resumes throttling Cas.

Boiling with a sudden, welcome surge of rage, Dean takes off at a run and throws himself at Mick, wrapping his arms around the other man’s torso hard enough that there should be at least some mild discomfort. Mick doesn’t even acknowledge Dean’s grip on him, and Cas’ face is starting to take on a purple hue.

Garth rejoins the fray, and with a combined effort of tugging and shoving, they manage to dislodge Mick and hold him down.

Their advantage doesn’t last long. Mick snarls. He surges up, toppling Dean and Garth and rising off the floor in a single, graceful motion that somehow doesn’t involve his hands at all. Dean lands on his back hard enough to knock the wind out of him. 

He looks around for Cas, who’s sitting up now, rubbing at the abused flesh of his throat. Their eyes meet, and Dean opens his mouth just to check in, but Mick is already coming at them again, his stare promising murder or, at the very least, severe mutilation. 

Cas slants his eyes at the mangled remains of Ketch’s chair. Dean nods and scrambles for the sharpest-looking piece, which used to be approximately half of a chair leg, but now tapers into a wickedly sharp point. 

Mick has settled on going for Garth, probably figuring that as the skinniest of them all, he makes the easiest target. What Mick apparently didn’t reckon on is Garth getting up, fussily adjusting his "Free Hugs" hat and pivoting elegantly to land a wicked roundhouse kick to Mick's midsection. (And where the fuck did Garth learn how to do _that_? It can’t be another boy scout thing, right?)

A pained grunt escapes Mick, and he staggers back, onto the staircase. Cas’ expression performs an interesting journey that ends somewhere in the neighborhood of fierce determination, and he rises off the floor, tugging his necklace out of his collar. He rips the chain off his throat with a swift, powerful yank (that Dean is going to replay endlessly in his future fantasies, assuming he’ll live to have any of those) and advances on Mick, a large, gleaming cross pendant dangling from his fist.

Deciding he might as well make himself useful, Dean tightens his grip on the impromptu stake and stalks toward Mick, who is eyeing both Garth and Cas warily as he backs slowly up the stairs.

Dean raises the stake over his shoulder, point forward, and pushes past Garth to get to Mick. Cas is next to one of the banister statues now, holding the cross right at Mick’s eye level.

Mick stares at the pendant, so hypnotized that he doesn’t even notice Dean’s approach. Dean brings his arm down in a long arc, plunging the stake straight into Mick’s chest.

As Mick lets out a bone-deep, guttural death rattle, neon-green, viscous liquid spills forth from the wound. Dean jerks his hand back just in time, and he, Cas and Garth each take an instinctive step back as a radioactive rivulet of what is presumably Mick’s blood runs down his immaculately tailored suit, then drips down the stairs to puddle on the espresso-stained hardwood floor.

Before Dean’s appalled eyes, Mick’s skin starts to disintegrate, dissolving under the thickening gush of green. It detaches from brittle, blackened bones until there’s nothing but a scorched-looking skeleton left standing, with unnaturally sharp canines and… holy shit, are those wings?

Then even those last remnants are gone, crumbling to dust on the third step.

“Fuck,” Dean mouths.

“Pretty much,” Cas agrees.

“What in the name of sweet Mary Sue just happened?” Garth squeaks, half appalled, half delighted.

“You know what?” Cas says, blue eyes blazing. “I don’t care anymore. About any of this. Your stupid fucking show, the nightmare that this entire experience is turning out to be, the paycheck. I’m getting out of here.”

Remembering their little moment outside just before the shoot, Dean can’t help but be a little hurt. But then his eyes fall on the green puddle on the floor, which has now started to smoke, and yeah. He can’t blame Cas for wanting out.

Cas stalks to the front door and pulls at the knob. Rattles it. Twists it. Pulls again. For a beat or two, he just stands there, shoulders rising and falling with deep breaths. 

“Cas?” Dean tries, softly. 

“Fucking fuck!” Cas starts kicking the door furiously — once, twice, three times — before he escalates to throwing his shoulder against it. Garth and Dean both make a move to stop him, but Dean gets there first. He puts a hand on Cas’ shoulder, slowly pulling him away from the door. To his surprise, Cas comes without a fight.

To his even greater surprise, his own hand comes up to Cas’ cheek, cupping it gently. “Hey. Look at me.” 

Eventually, Cas does. His eyes are vivid with rage and, now that the adrenaline of the fight is presumably starting to dissipate, fear. “We’re trapped in here, Dean,” he croaks. “He’s never letting us go.”

Proving that point, Garth walks past them to try the knob, with no more success than Cas.

“No.” Dean shakes his head firmly, like he can improve their odds through sheer force of will. “We _are_ getting out. We’ll find a window, a coal chute, a fucking cat door. _Something_.”

That gets him a weak chuckle, and Dean counts it as a win.

“And when we get out?” Fueled by the sheer nuttiness of the situation, Dean can’t seem to stop the words from spilling out. “We’re going on a date.” 

Then, because Dean can never let a smooth pickup line stand without making it awkward, he adds, “I mean, if you wanted to do that. With me.” 

Cas’ lips part slightly in surprise. And is it Dean’s imagination, or does he start to lean into Dean’s hand just a little?

“I’d like that,” Cas says. There’s a fond warmth in his eyes that seems a little at odds with the mortal peril they all find themselves in, but Dean’s not about to complain.

“I’m happy for you two and all,” Garth says, bursting Dean’s sappy little bubble with the toothpick of his cheerful competence, “but first things first. Let’s find a way out.”

*** 

They don’t find a way out.

At least, not on the first floor. They search every room, each of them now clutching an impromptu wooden stake fashioned from the splinters of Ketch’s chair, using a wickedly sharp pocketknife Garth always carries in his back pocket. (That one _is_ a boy scout thing, apparently.)

But no matter how closely they look, there are no cat flaps, and all the windows prove just as stuck as the door. The only good news is that they don’t encounter Ketch, or any other of the monstrous creatures that are most likely lurking all over this creepy-ass mansion.

They find a door that probably leads to the basement, but it’s locked. So there’s really only one option left. The thing you never, ever do in these situations. The thing everyone who’s ever watched a horror movie knows is a horrible, awful, no-good idea.

They have to go upstairs. 

Carefully sidestepping the green goo, which has burned several impressively sized holes in the floor and staircase, they make their way up the stairs. Ever since Dean accidentally (and, to his lasting surprise, successfully) asked Cas out, he’s feeling extra protective, so he goes first, followed by Cas, and Garth brings up the rear. They each have their stakes raised in front of them, and Cas’ cross necklace is still clutched tightly in his left hand.

At the top, Dean stands momentarily in front of the giant stained-glass window, trying to decide on the best way forward. On a whim, he goes right, turning into a gloomy, narrow corridor lined with at least a dozen doorways.

With a deafening crash, the window at his back shatters.

Dean spins around just in time to watch a figure leap through the broken window and wind itself around Cas, who drops his stake. Garth staggers back instinctively, just managing to hold on to the banister three steps below where he started.

Ketch stands behind Cas, one arm wrapped in a death grip across his chest to keep him still. Cas struggles, grunting and pulling to get free, but he seems unable to move an inch.

“Fucking let him go,” Dean growls.

Ketch leers. He makes a very different picture now from the smooth, polished host who greeted them earlier. His mouth is crowded with foul, yellowed fangs, and when he raises a hand to Cas’ throat, Dean can see that his fingers taper into long, black, wickedly sharp nails. He scrapes one of those nails across the delicate skin just below Cas’ jawline, and a drop of blood wells up there.

Dean thinks of the flask of holy water in the pocket of his jacket, but he can’t go for it without drawing Ketch’s attention, and the risk is too great. One good swipe of that nail against Cas’ jugular, and… no. He’s not going to think about that. 

Ketch licks his lips.

“Oh, I don’t think I will. I have some lovely plans for this one.” He turns his face into Cas’ neck, lips almost touching the spot where blood is still dripping sluggishly. “You’re exactly my type, darling. I’m weak for a pretty pair of blue eyes.”

His eyes drift lazily to the green puddle at the bottom of the stairs. “He did have _those_ , poor Mick, but not much else to recommend him. No sophistication. In the end, I decided against making him fully vampiric. He just wasn’t what I’m looking for in a mate.”

At the mention of the word “mate,” Cas flinches and struggles harder. Dean takes an almost involuntary step forward. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Garth doing the same.

“Oh no, you don’t,” Garth says. “These two—“ Garth points at Cas and Dean in turn, “—have been dancing around each other like sulky, lovesick puppies for _months_. They’re finally getting somewhere, and you do _not_ get to ruin this for me.

Dean should probably be outraged at Garth for gossiping about his pathetic love life (or lack thereof) in front of an undead creep, but he’ll have to get around to that when Cas isn’t being perved on by said creep.

Garth moves forward again, stake raised. Keeping a firm hold on Cas, Ketch spins them both and flicks a hand at Garth. Propelled by an invisible force, Garth plummets down the stairs. He lands in a heap at the bottom and doesn’t stir.

Cas takes advantage of Ketch’s momentary distraction to free one hand, silver pendant glinting between his fingers. His furious jab catches Ketch on the cheek, and Dean holds his breath, expecting smoke and maybe more green goo and the sweet taste of victory—

Nothing happens.

Ketch grabs hold of Cas’ hand and bends it behind Cas’ back with absurd ease. “Good try, darling, but you have to have faith for those trinkets to work on _me_.” He strokes a razor-clawed finger down Cas’ cheek, leaving another subtle cut behind. “And I have a feeling you lost _that_ years ago.”

Ketch slants his eyes at Dean, their brown sparkling with delighted malice. “When this town is mine and I’ve finished turning it into a feeding ground for my nest, beautiful Castiel here is going to reign at my side.” His expression darkens. “And there’s not a thing _you_ can do to stop me, Dean Winchester.”

Ketch raises his hand and flicks it at Dean. In a rush of motion, Dean is thrown backward, and his head hits the wall.

Darkness.

***

When Dean blinks awake, he’s not sure how many hours have passed. The house is utterly silent around him, and the only source of illumination is the flicker of a dim light in the corridor at his back, reflecting off the shards of multi-colored glass on the floor. 

He rubs at the bump on his head. It's tender and achy, but when he gets up, he doesn’t feel dizzy or sick. No concussion. He’ll take any piece of good news he can get tonight.

A groan alerts him that maybe he’s not as alone as he thought. He steps up to the staircase. The gloom is thick down on the first floor, but he can see the barest outline of a scrawny figure sitting up, shaking his head. “Garth?" 

“Dean? Oh good.” Garth’s relief is palpable. “Where’s Cas? He okay?”

Dean swallows hard, remembering the sight of a thin trickle of blood running down Cas’ neck. “Ketch got him,” he says, his voice sounding a little unsteady to his own ears.

Garth says nothing to that, which is a small blessing. Slowly, holding on to the banister, Dean descends the stairs. When he gets to the bottom, Garth is busy flipping the light switch by the front door.

“Power’s out,” Garth says, on a sigh. He stills. “Wait a minute.” He reaches for the front door. It’s ajar. “Why would he let us go, just like that?”

“He wanted Cas,” Dean says miserably. “He wanted Cas, and he got him. Fuck.” Dean rubs at his face with his palm, almost hard enough to hurt. “I should’ve listened to him. We should’ve gotten the hell out of here while we still could.”

Garth frowns back and forth between Dean and the open door, puzzled. “But what about the recording? If he lets us go, we—”

Dean looks around the room, trying to remember where the camera ended up. He spots a glint in the far corner and walks toward it. It’s a crushed lens. The rest of the camera is scattered in jagged pieces across the floor. Like someone ripped it apart with their bare hands and then stepped on it for good measure. “Looks like Ketch took care of that,” he says, bitterly.

For a moment, Garth says nothing. Then, “How long do you think it’s been since Ketch took Cas?”

Dean looks around helplessly until he remembers his phone, in the back pocket of his pants. With any luck, it wasn’t damaged in the scuffle. When he pulls it out, the screen is a little cracked, but it shows the time just fine. Ten thirty.

“About two hours, I think,” Dean answers, trying hard not to picture what Ketch could have done to Cas in all that time.

“Okay.” Garth nods, squares his shoulders. “What we need is backup. Someone who _knows_ about vampires, and how to fight them.”

“Oh, sure,” Dean snarls. “We’ll just Google ‘vampire hunters’ and call the guy with the best reviews.”

“Actually,” Garth says, coolly, “I was thinking we’d just go next door.”

*** 

“Back when Donatello used to host the show,” Garth explains as they stroll up the cracked, overgrown garden path of the neighboring house, “he would always tell me these stories while we were waiting for the next take. About all the times he fought vampires as a young guy. He’d include lots and lots of detail about all the ways he’d trick them, and the weapons he used.” Garth shrugs. “I thought they were just that — stories, you know? But now… I’m not so sure.” 

Halfway between hope and trepidation, Dean looks up at the warm glow emanating from the windows of the rundown Victorian. 

Sure, Donatello was someone he idolized growing up. Once he actually met the guy, though, he seemed nice enough, but not like the kind of person you’d trust to go toe-to-toe with a terrifying, superhumanly strong creature and live to tell the tale.

When they reach the front door, Garth turns to Dean. “Just… let _me_ talk.”

Dean nods, and Garth knocks. And knocks, and knocks. In fact, the long-and-short pattern of the knock doesn’t seem like it’s ever going to end.

“What the fuck is this?” Dean snarls.

Garth looks back at him, clearly unimpressed with his attitude. “Our secret knock. Morse code for ‘friend.’”

“Don’t tell me,” Dean says, on a heavy exhale. “It’s another boy scout thing.” 

Garth inclines his head in acknowledgment. “Can’t be too careful.”

From the other side of the door, another series of knocks starts up. As far as Dean can tell, it’s the same pattern. In any case, Garth nods, satisfied. “We need your help, Donatello,” Garth tells the closed door.

The door is yanked open, and Donatello is silhouetted in the doorframe, wavy white hair a mess, wire-rimmed glasses crooked on his nose, an atrociously patterned sweater vest competing for attention with a pair of fuzzy pink slippers. 

“Tell me,” he says darkly, looking back and forth between them, “you haven’t been tangling with that vampire." 

Dean steps forward, ignoring Garth’s shushing hand motion. “He took Cas. We need to get him back. Garth thinks you know how to do that.” 

Donatello’s eyebrows try valiantly to rise all the way to his receding hairline. “And why, young man, would I help the grumpy, arrogant bastard who took my job?”

Garth shoots Dean a look that very clearly says, “This is why you were supposed to let _me_ talk.”

Dean ignores him. “Please. I know he’s a grumpy, arrogant bastard, but I was kinda hoping he could be _my_ grumpy, arrogant bastard.” He pauses, realizing what he’s said, but decides to let it stand.

Donatello inclines his head back and forth, considering.

“Also,” Dean says, “Ketch said something about buying up the town to turn it into a feeding ground for other vampires.” He probably should have led with that.

Donatello’s eyebrows, recently returned to their accustomed perches, rise again, but he says nothing.

“You’re also,” Garth says, with the supreme confidence of someone who’s found the winning argument, “on camera.” 

Donatello’s and Dean’s heads whip around to face Garth as one. “I’m what?” Donatello demands.

“On camera,” Garth says, serenely, and taps the top of his “Free Hugs” hat. “Brought a hidden backup.”

Dean gapes at him, slack-jawed. 

“What?” Garth frowns. “You thought I’d go on a shoot with just one camera?”

Donatello grumbles unintelligibly. As he turns away from the door, he says, “Well, come on in, already. I don’t have all night.”

*** 

“The thing you have to understand about vampires,” Donatello says, wagging a pedantic finger as he leads Dean and Garth down a dusty hallway and into the center of the house, “is when they feel threatened, they retreat to the safety of their coffin. Now,” he says, as he turns left into what appears to be a study, “The most likely place for a coffin is always the basement. Closer to the soil, you know. Very comforting thing for the undead.”

Dean looks around. The desk, desk chair and every other piece of furniture in the small, overheated room is covered in dusty tomes. The smell of decaying paper is normally something Dean considers pleasant, but it’s so overwhelming combined with the heat and closeness of the study that it’s verging on unpleasant.

Donatello runs a finger across one of the bookshelves, searching. “Now, where do we have… ah yes. Here.” He taps a particularly large tome bound in blood-red leather, and a panel opens in the wall next to the bookcase.

Behind the panel is another, smaller room, covered top to bottom in weapons and trinkets. Knives, from pocket size to a wickedly sharp-looking machete. Crosses, from small pendants to six-footers. Wooden stakes of every conceivable size, all looking freshly sharpened. And shelf after shelf of small glass bottles, filled with what Dean can only assume is holy water. His jaw drops.

“What?” Donatello sounds vaguely put out. “You thought I was always a washed-up actor? I’ve lived a life, you know.”

“Clearly,” Garth says, awed.

Dean runs a hand over a particularly fearsome-looking silver blade, but Donatello knocks it away. “Hands to yourself, if you please. There are dangerous objects in this room, and only _I_ am equipped to identify them. Now,” he continues, giving Dean and Garth an assessing look. “Do either of you carry anything that could be useful in a fight?”

“A pocket knife,” Garth says, hopefully.

“Ehh.” Donatello wags his head dubiously. “Too small to be truly useful.” He turns to Dean. “And you?”

“Some holy water,” Dean says, pulling out the flask in his jacket pocket to demonstrate. “But it looks like you’ve got that covered. So, I guess, no, unless you count _this_.”

He undoes one of the buttons on his shirtfront and reaches inside to produce his blood bag.

Donatello’s eyes narrow, considering. “You know,” he says slowly, “I think we may be able to use that.”

*** 

Once again, Dean is regretting his life choices.

Not the choice to come back and rescue Cas. Never that. But definitely the choice to tell Donatello about his blood bag.

It’s the reason Garth is carrying an intimidating-looking machete as he strides across the lawn to the Brewster House, while Dean is clutching a pair of dollar-store water guns, colored pink and purple, respectively. One is filled with holy water, the other with fake blood.

“A vampire’s eyes,” Donatello had explained, back in his study, “are his most potent weapon. It’s how he puts victims under his thrall, sapping their will to fight. Now, there are few substances in this world as sticky as movie blood made with a Karo syrup base. If we can manage to hit our adversary squarely in the eyes with it, we gain a significant advantage.” 

So, sure, Dean’s weapons are a strategic asset, but they’re not exactly dignified. 

“I still don’t see why _you_ get to carry the deadly weapon and I get the toys,” he hisses, looking over his shoulder to make sure no undead Brits are about to jump them.

“Again,” Garth hisses back, “boy scout. I know how to handle a knife.”

“So do I,” Dean grumbles.

“I’m not the one who cut himself trying to pick one up.”

“My hand slipped,” Dean shoots back. When he realizes that’s not exactly an argument in his favor, he adds, “Shut up.”

Garth does, and so does Dean, because they’ve reached the porch steps. The front door is wide open, just as they left it.

Garth clicks on the flashlight they took from Donatello’s house as, quietly, slowly, the two of them creep up the stairs and back into the gloomy interior of the Brewster House.

As soon as they’ve both crossed the threshold, all the lights in the house come on, blinding them.

Dean blinks hard to dislodge the spots in his vision, spinning around, but finding no one except Garth, who’s looking as wrong-footed as Dean feels.

“Well, there goes our element of surprise,” Dean says, around his heart, which has managed to get stuck halfway up his throat.

Garth nods grimly and turns, making for the kitchen where they found the door that most likely leads down to the basement. 

It’s wide open.

“Well, that’s not suspicious at all,” Dean whispers, clutching his water guns tighter. They feel even more flimsy than before.

With one last look around, they start to descend the basement stairs, Dean taking the lead, because the idea is to weaken Ketch with a combination of fake blood and holy water, then have Garth move in with the machete.

Dean tries to move quietly, but it’s no good. The treads of each stair are crooked, and every last one emits an ominous creak as Dean steps on it. He curses the bare light bulb overhead, whose constant flickering makes it, if anything, even harder to navigate.

He reaches the bottom of the steps and looks around. Unfinished, moisture-dark walls surround him on all sides, except for the dark, narrow opening of a corridor to Dean’s left. At the far end of the corridor, a warm, steady glow proclaims the presence of another room. 

“Fuck,” Dean mutters, his pulse beating frantically in his ears, but he forces his feet to keep moving through the basement and down the corridor, Garth at his heels.

He steps across the threshold of the second room. It’s high-ceilinged and windowless, with another rickety staircase that leads to the kind of steel door generally used for outdoor basement access. Dusty, half-broken furniture lines the walls, leaving the center free for a large, gleaming coffin.

The lid is closed.

Garth nudges Dean from behind. “Fuck,” Dean says again, but he moves forward, pointing both guns at the coffin as Garth comes to stand next to him, machete poised. Slowly, Garth reaches out with his free hand, and cracks the lid.

Blue eyes and messy dark hair greet them from a nest of pink satin lining.

Cas’ hands are tied in front of him with ropes, and he looks a little dazed, but otherwise okay. Confused, he blinks first at Garth, then at Dean.

“Dean?” he croaks. 

“Hi,” Dean says, grinning despite the fact that they’re still in the basement of an undead menace who wants to drink their blood. The sheer relief of seeing Cas alive and apparently unharmed makes him want to be reckless, to lean in and kiss Cas until they’re both dizzy. Before he can put that excellent plan into action, Cas blinks again, and his earlier confusion is replaced by alarm. “Dean, it’s a trap. Ketch is—”

Something slams into Dean’s side, knocking him to the dirt floor. The impact loosens his hold on the water guns and they clatter away, out of reach. Ignoring the ache in his side, Dean twists around, just in time to see Ketch clutching Garth by the front of his shirt. 

Garth may be scrawny, but he’s not a short guy by any means. Ketch lifts him like he’s nothing, until his toes are dangling a good two feet off the floor. Garth stills as Ketch fixes him with a penetrating stare, darkness and hellfire and menace. 

“Kill Dean,” Ketch says, slowly and clearly, and he sets Garth down.

His expression curiously blank, Garth tightens his grip on his machete and stalks toward where Dean is still curled on the floor.

This is it. Dean has no weapon to defend himself, and he’s going to die in this damp, depressing basement. At least Garth is still wearing his hidden camera hat, so Dean’s gory death is going to be preserved for posterity.

Garth has reached Dean now. He raises the machete, ready to strike, and—

With a mighty clatter, the steel doors fall open, and a sharp breeze whips through the room. From his position on the floor, Dean can just see a short, squat silhouette, holding a stake in one hand and a cross in the other, a fierce expression only slightly undermined by the riotous pattern of Donatello’s sweater. 

At least he changed out of the fuzzy slippers.

When they were leaving Donatello’s house, he promised he’d be right behind them and find another way into the basement. Dean was about seventy-five percent sure it was a line to get rid of them.

All his life, Dean’s never been happier to be wrong.

Donatello strides down the stairs with supreme dignity, cross held high in front of him. “ _In nomine patri, et fili, et spiritu sancti_ ,” he intones, the power of the words making the air crackle around him.

Ketch stills. Then he takes a step back and hisses, exposing yellowed fangs.

“Faith, my good man,” Donatello says, smiling. “It’s a beautiful thing.”

Distracted by the commotion, Garth has turned away, eyes fixed on Donatello, who’s still advancing on Ketch.

The guns. Frantic, Dean sits up and scans the floor, looking for a flash of pink or purple. His eyes light on purple first. Fake blood.

Dean lunges. As soon as he’s got a grip on the gun, he rises to his feet, knocking into Garth, who is still facing Donatello and Ketch, and apparently waiting for further instructions. 

Ketch finally seems to gather sufficient resolve to look away from the cross. He fixes Garth with another stare. “Kill Donatello,” he says, voice echoing with irresistible command.

Garth starts walking, but Dean gets there first. He raises his arm and pulls the trigger.

A stream of sticky, wine-dark liquid hits Ketch squarely across the eyes. With a snarl, Ketch claws at them, tries to blink them open against the glue-like substance coating his eyelashes.

Dean pivots to look at Garth, who’s stopped in his tracks, lowering his machete and shaking his head like he’s trying to dislodge something. When his eyes finally meet Dean’s, they look clear.

From the coffin, Cas’ voice sounds, distinctly grumpy even in their current, life-threatening situation. “Anyone wanna untie me so I can help?” 

Dean looks back at Donatello, who’s taking advantage of Ketch’s weakened state to press his cross to the vampire’s forehead. The smell of sulphur and burning flesh fills the room, and Ketch lets out an agonized, guttural cry.

Donatello has, apparently, got this covered.

Dean grabs the machete out of Garth’s limp hand and heads over to Cas. With a swift drag of blade over rope, Cas’ hands are free, and he climbs out of the coffin.

“Give me that,” Cas demands, holding out his hand for the machete. There’s steel in his eyes, and Dean wouldn’t dream of doing anything other than exactly what Cas wants. He hands over the weapon. 

Cas grips it tight and strides over. Donatello has lowered the cross now and is raising the stake above his head. The sharpened point plunges straight into Ketch’s chest, blood gushing in a towering fountain onto Donatello’s sweater. Ketch’s hands scrabble at the wood, uselessly, and he sinks to his knees.

“Excuse me,” Cas says, exquisitely polite. Surprise plain on his face, Donatello turns around. Whatever he sees in Cas’ expression, it must inspire trust, because he steps further back and gestures for Cas to take his place in front of Ketch.

Cas takes the machete in both hands, then swings the blade in a lightning-fast, graceful arc.

Before Dean is entirely sure what’s happened, Ketch’s head parts company with the rest of his body and thuds to the floor. Ketch’s torso sways for a moment, blood flowing sluggishly from the stump of his neck, but then it slumps forward and succumbs to gravity. 

“I’m not your fucking mate, you creep,” Cas growls down at the mangled remains. “And I’m _not_ crazy.”

Dean isn’t entirely sure when he let go of the gun, only that he hears it hit the floor. The only thing that seems to matter anymore is Cas, looking radiant in his righteous fury.

Dean covers the distance between them in three strides and grabs the back of Cas’ head, pulling him in for a bruising kiss.

On a soft moan, Cas’ mouth opens to him, and Dean is so caught up in the warm, solid feel, the intoxicating taste of Cas, he barely hears Garth’s cheerful exclamation of “Aaaaaand… cut."

*** 

[The scene: an abandoned house at the edge of town. Two men creep around its edges, each holding a machete. One has dark hair, a sharp jaw and penetrating blue eyes. The other is dark blond, with a handsome, boyish face made more attractive by a smattering of freckles. Just shy of the front door, they stop, their mutual attraction obvious in the way they lean toward each other. The blond man puts a hand on his partner’s shoulder, addressing him.]

“Seems awfully quiet. Are you sure the nest is here? Maybe you got the location wrong.”

[The dark-haired man rolls his eyes.]

“I don’t get things wrong.”

“Except for that one time when—”

[The dark-haired man steps forward and pulls his partner in for a passionate kiss that soon turns tender. Blushing, the other man pulls back.]

“Just be careful in there, alright? I love you.”

[The dark-haired man smiles, equal parts fond and teasing.]

“I know.”

[They turn as one and walk up the front steps that will lead them into certain danger.]

“Aaaaaaaand… cut.” Garth’s voice echoes across the studio, carrying effortlessly even in the cavernous space. “Good work. Everybody take fifteen before we set up for the next scene.”

“Man,” Dean says, stretching happily in his folding chair next to the craft table. “Aren’t you glad they didn’t want us to play ourselves? With decent actors, this show might actually work.”

In the chair next to Dean’s, Cas ignores him completely, frowning back and forth between his copy of the script and the backs of the two actors, who are making their way to their dressing rooms. “You know, I don’t think Adam got his line right? It’s supposed to be, ‘I’m never wrong.’” 

Dean rolls his eyes fondly at his boyfriend.

Their special episode of “Vampire Hunter!” — filmed mostly with Garth’s “Free Hugs” camera — had the highest ratings in the show’s history. Someone (most likely Garth) uploaded the footage to YouTube, where it went viral and attracted the attention of a national streaming service.

Apparently, between the gritty, handheld look, the vampire theme and the, quote-unquote, “sizzling chemistry” between the two male leads, “Vampire Hunter!” was exactly what the streaming execs were looking for.

After writing a test script for the first episode of a show about two openly gay vampire hunters defeating the undead together, Dean and Cas were offered what the execs termed a “modest budget” to turn it into a real pilot. That modest budget had a whole lot more zeroes attached to it than Dean was used to seeing in one place.

Thrilled with the pilot, the streaming service offered a contract to produce a full season. It took a little negotiating, but Dean and Cas’ new superiors eventually agreed to bring on Garth as director of photography and Donatello as a “creative consultant.” (A job that, as far as Dean can tell, mostly entails watching the shoots with a gimlet eye and grumbling under his breath at “all the inaccuracies.”)

Dean nudges Cas with his foot. “So now that you don’t _have_ to learn the lines, you do? Just to spite me.”

Cas smirks and leans in close, brushing his lips against Dean’s ear. “I’m here to put an end to your reign of terror, you undead abomination,” he whispers.

Dean leans back and cocks an eyebrow, grinning. “Oh baby, talk dirty to me.”

When everyone returns to set fifteen minutes later, it’s to find two empty chairs and a dog-eared copy of the script, its pages ruffled gently by the breeze from a wind machine.

**Author's Note:**

> If you enjoyed this, please take the time to leave kudos or even a comment! I don't exaggerate when I say that getting comments, even if it's "just" a string of emojis or a keysmash, is what makes me want to keep writing. (If you really, REALLY enjoyed this, consider [giving it a reblog](https://friendofcarlotta.tumblr.com/post/633409951055921152/vampire-hunter-starring-castiel-krushnic-now)?)
> 
> You can also come find me on [tumblr](https://friendofcarlotta.tumblr.com)!
> 
> If you'd like to know what I'm up to next, you can [subscribe to me here](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FriendofCarlotta/pseuds/FriendofCarlotta).
> 
> Right now, I'm working on episode codas for Season 15, a challenge fic, and, yes, a Some Like It Hot-inspired comedy AU with musicians Dean and Cas on the run from gangsters at a Florida resort.
> 
> Hope to see you there!


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